


not unlike a coronation

by ienablu



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Alderaan, Canon Planet Destruction, Gen, Grief/Mourning, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-16
Updated: 2016-04-16
Packaged: 2018-06-02 16:25:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6573493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ienablu/pseuds/ienablu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You were born on Alderaan.</p><p>(This is a half-lie. Alderaan was destroyed fourteen years before you were born.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	not unlike a coronation

**Author's Note:**

> Credit goes to sputnikcentury for basically the entirety of this. The initial idea of Alderaani descent Kaydel Ko came from her, and inspiration came from us discussing it.

You were born on Alderaan.

*

(This is a half-lie. Alderaan was destroyed fourteen years before you were born.)

*

You were born on Bakura.

It was a lovely planet, and a lovely place to grow up. You had a happy childhood.

The only true sorrow came from your mother. She would wrap you in her arms, and pull you in tight, the sun setting over the lake. "I wish you could have seen it," your mother would say, voice heavy with something you didn’t yet understand. “It’s not the same.”

*

In time you learned that Bakura was the planet most like Alderaan. Such is the consensus, after a decade of the last generation of Alderaan searching for a new home, or something like it.

*

Your parents were on Coruscant. 

This is your heritage, now part of your identity, and a staple of introductions. It’s only asked by foreigners. ( _How did you survive?_ they ask.)

By your kin – the displaced last generation, your fellow first generation, the growing second generation – it’s never asked forthright, although it always makes its way into conversations. (The question they don’t ask: _how are you surviving?_ )

(The question they refuse to even think: _are we surviving?_ )

Your parents were on Coruscant, your father a low-level emissary at the time, your mother travelling along with him. She had nearly stayed home, wanting to stare out the wide windows of their mountain home and watch the leaves fade from green to autumnal oranges. But your mother’s favorite pastry shop in the Alderaani quarter was going out of business, and she wanted to visit one last time.

*

The pastry shop is still in business.

*

Your parents’ litany of loss has become yours, shifting one relation over. Your mother’s lost parents are now your lost maternal grandparents, lost brothers and sisters now lost uncles and aunts.

You don’t speak of your losses in casual conversation. It’s one of the deeper intimacies, several get-togethers in, sharing the all the small parts that made the whole of the tragedy. Your father had two best friends since childhood, the three of them following different paths in life but had always kept in touch. The woman who had stood beside your mother at her wedding was a friend from classes.

You listen to your elders. You share with your fellow generation. You hold the infants of the next generation – growing, still growing – and know some day you will be telling them of your mother’s old mentor and your father’s favored shop owner and… 

*

Every single face, every single voice, gone but for how you memorialize them.

*

You never chose to attend school to study the history of Alderaan. You never chose not to, either. You never thought to chose anything different. It is one more thing you inherited, the yearning for the spirit of your once-homeland (a half-lie) to survive, the refusal to do anything less.

And so you study.

There was no one Alderaani culture then, not with two billion inhabitants. The planet of beauty, renowned for its nature, poetry, philosophy, art, couture, cuisine. And even now at a three million, the culture varies: it varies by original Alderaani region, families marrying different regions, the influences of the local culture. The first generation is growing as the last generation is waning, and you study the changes and changes and changes. 

You don't inherit from your culture, you inherit the remains. All the same things that have been forgotten, all the small traditions that were discontinued through the years. It's not a watered down version, but it is a different version. United in some ways, but brittle at the same time.

When the first news footage of new Stormtroopers comes out, you feel a deep, inherited terror. These are the soldiers that served those that made the Death Star, those that took away Alderaan. 

You give up your studies.

You join the Resistance.

*

Sidious and Vader, Snoke and Ren, there is always evil in the galaxy.

*

The Resistance is made up of dozens of different species from a dozen different homeworlds, and looking around the canteen during the middle of lunch reminds you of the diversity you saw during your visits to Coruscant.

In the corner, though, there are two tables distanced slightly from the rest, an enclave of Alderaani. There are more at the base than you thought there would be, but at the same time, you are not surprised. Alderaan did not breed any specific traits that make you immediately identifiable, but you know.

You take your tray and you go over to the table, where they are quietly talking. "May I join you?"

A few silent moments of assessment pass.

"Sit down," the oldest of the group – a woman – says.

You do. "Thank you."

"First generation?” she asks.

You nod.

“Welcome,” she says. Then she turns back to her prior conversation.

You are seated next to a very pretty girl, looking not more than a few years older than you. Her hair is in an elaborate style, a bun on the back of her head with loops of braids below it. She sees you looking, and she smiles sweetly. “Hello,” she says. “Have you met with Princess Leia yet?”

You shake your head. “Does she meet with all the new recruits?”

Her smile turns bittersweet. “Only us.”

*

 _Only us_ , you think. You have thought about it many times before.

*

Leia knocks on your door that night, and you stare speechless at her.

Leia Organa is a mythical figure to the galaxy at large – Princess, Imperialist Senator, Rebel Alliance commander, refugee aid worker, New Republic Galactic Senator, title upon title bestowed upon her. She is hailed as General now, in tribute to her past military experience and to her continuing tactical brilliance.

But to you, to the three million displaced Alderaani, she is royalty. Princess Leia Organa of Alderaan, the last monarch and pride of your people, one cornerstone of your surviving culture.

She’s shorter than you thought she would be.

“May I come in?”

You blink a few times. “Yes. Yes, of course.” You step back, allow her into your room.

Her gaze flicks over you, and settles on your low ponytail. “You can take your hair tie off.”

You do.

There is a mirror on the wall, and she pulls the chair up to sit before it. At her gesture, you sit.

Her hands thread through your hair, quickly untangling the few knots, and then just running her hands through your hair for a few moments.

"My mother–" she starts, and goes quiet for a moment. "My mother used to do this when I was a child. She said that it was easier to maneuver hair if it was a combined effort, if your hands and the hair were not strangers."

Her hands in your hair, you cannot nod. You just make a quiet noise of agreement. This is not something you knew. Leia keeps talking, and you sit and stay silent. You sit with your hair being crafted by Princess Leia, listening to stories about the Late Queen Breha Organa, and with the enormity of the loss thick in your throat. You sit and listen to words that will one day be part of fairytales told by children of Alderaan who have long forgotten their number of generations. You sit and you watch Leia’s hands in the mirror.

Your hair has been parted, half flowing over your shoulder, the other half being worked by Leia. She twists and twists and twists – never pulling or tugging – and under her practiced hands the hair loops and loops and loops to settle into a bun just above your ear. 

She moves to your other side, and nudges you to tilt the side of your head more towards the mirror. She goes slower, and you watch aptly. Her fingers never fumble or hesitate. There is an ease to the movements, a rhythm, her hands dancing through your hair.

The result is two buns, both placed symmetrical to the other, no pins required.

“See me when you’ve got it,” Leia says. “Come to my quarters, I’ve got bigger mirrors.”

*

Your fingers fumble as you twist and twist and tug at your hair, and you frown when you see the completed set. Closer and closer, but not perfect.

*

There is a Stormtrooper on the base. You cannot look at him. You know what he did for the Resistance, that he was a hero of the recent battle, but you cannot look at him. It was easy during his time in the med bay, but upon his recovery, you do your best to avoid crossing paths, you cannot look at him.

...up until you nearly bump into each other in a hallway.

He looks at you and smiles. “Hey, I’ve seen you around the base, but I don’t think we’ve ever met. I’m Finn.”

“Kaydel Ko.”

“It’s nice to meet you.” He is smiling and his expression is bright. He has known you for thirty seconds and he already likes you.

You wish you could say the same. "I've heard about you." You look at him. His smile is genuine. "They say you were a Stormtrooper."

The energy fades from his face, his expression turns solemn. He nods. Voice scarce, he says, "I was a Stormtrooper."

You have never seen a Stormtrooper without their helmets. You have often wondered if there was anything under the armor, if they look like beasts, if they have no soul.

Looking at Finn, you see a man. You see a hero to the Resistance. You saw his soul shining bright and energetic up until you dimmed his smile a minute ago.

"I was born on Alderaan," you tell him.

He frowns, his gaze flicking you up and down, trying to find those missing fourteen years, but he doesn't comment. Instead, his expression goes impossibly soft, impossibly sad. “I’m sorry,” he says.

He is a few years short to have been alive at the time, much less under the Galactic Empire. Clones then, kidnapped child soldiers now. You’ve heard about him.

He made a choice. And another and another, and the Starkiller will not destroy another planet.

You give him a tentative smile. “It was nice to meet you, Finn,” you say.

His smile returns, not as bright but just as warm. “I’ve got to head to the hangar, but I’ll see you around.”

*

You run your hands through your hair a dozen times, and smile when the buns fall perfectly into place.

*

You knock and are welcomed into Princess Leia’s chambers. Being the leader of the Resistance, you expected her rooms to be a bit more extravagant. They are the standard fare of the base, though, and the only luxury is a vanity with three mirrors.

She smiles at your hair, and ushers you towards the stool in front of the vanity.

“You’ve had them close for a while,” Leia observes as you start unraveling your buns.

You’ve all been a bit busy for a while.

You don’t say it, though. Amidst the celebration of the Starkiller destroyed, the news spread quickly through the base. The title of Han Solo was one debated by many – Prince or Consort, you’ve watched it start many a heated debate – but they both take backseat to _the late_.

Her gaze goes distant, and you know she is thinking of the same.

“What hairstyle do I get to learn this time?”

She closes her eyes for a moment, breathes, and then looks and smiles down at you. “One of my favorites,” she says.

You watch in the mirror as she starts to braid your hair, weaving the strands together, and unweaving them moments later.

"This one is a little harder to do for someone else," Leia says, after a few attempts. "I just do it by touch, and then hope for the best."

“You do it well.”

She catches your gaze through the mirror and gives you a good-humored smile. “Not always. Especially not the first thing in the morning.”

You snort, and bite your bottom lip.

In the mirror, her smile has only widened. She goes back to laying the hair down, bringing it up, braiding it, curling it around your head.

Under Leia's hands, your hair looks like a circlet, like a crown.

*

You were born on Alderaan.

(This is a half-lie, and a half-truth.)


End file.
